Devil in Disguise Read online

  New York Times bestselling author Lisa Kleypas graduated from Wellesley College with a political science degree. She’s a RITA award-winning author of both historical romance and contemporary women’s fiction. She lives in Washington State with her husband Gregory and their two children.

  Visit Lisa Kleypas online:

  www.lisakleypas.com

  Facebook & Twitter: @LisaKleypas

  Praise for Lisa Kleypas:

  ‘The rare author who can make you laugh and cry – on the same page’

  Julia Quinn

  ‘Kleypas is a romance gem, a queen among a vast royal court of historical romance authors’

  Entertainment Weekly

  ‘A funny and charming story that will delight readers from the first page to the last’

  Kirkus Reviews

  ‘Flawlessly written … pure reading magic’

  Booklist

  ‘Magical’

  RT Book Reviews

  By Lisa Kleypas

  HISTORICAL

  The Ravenels

  COLD-HEARTED RAKE

  MARRYING

  WINTERBORNE

  DEVIL IN SPRING

  HELLO STRANGER

  DEVIL’S DAUGHTER

  CHASING CASSANDRA

  DEVIL IN DISGUISE

  The Hathaways

  MINE TILL MIDNIGHT

  SEDUCE ME AT SUNRISE

  TEMPT ME AT TWILIGHT

  MARRIED BY MORNING

  LOVE IN THE AFTERNOON

  The Wallflowers

  SECRETS OF A

  SUMMER NIGHT

  IT HAPPENED

  ONE AUTUMN

  THE DEVIL IN WINTER

  SCANDAL IN SPRING

  A WALLFLOWER

  CHRISTMAS*

  Bow Street Runners

  SOMEONE TO WATCH

  OVER ME

  LADY SOPHIA’S LOVER

  WORTH ANY PRICE

  Standalone

  AGAIN THE MAGIC*

  CONTEMPORARY

  Friday Harbour

  CHRISTMAS EVE AT

  FRIDAY HARBOUR

  RAINSHADOW ROAD

  DREAM LAKE

  CRYSTAL COVE

  Travis Series

  SUGAR DADDY

  BLUE-EYED DEVIL

  SMOOTH TALKING

  STRANGER

  BROWN-EYED GIRL

  *ebook only

  Copyright

  Published by Piatkus

  ISBN: 978-0-349-40773-9

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Lisa Kleypas

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Piatkus

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  About the Author

  Praise for Lisa Kleypas

  Also by Lisa Kleypas

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Lady Merritt’s Marmalade Cake

  To the marvelous Eloisa James,

  who got me through 2020.

  Thank you, my treasured friend!

  Love always,

  L.K.

  Chapter 1

  London, 1880

  “MACRAE IS AS ANGRY as a baited bear,” Luke Marsden warned as he entered the office. “If you’ve never been around a Scotsman in a temper, you’d better brace yourself for the language.”

  Lady Merritt Sterling looked up from her desk with a faint smile. Her brother was a handsome sight, with his windblown dark hair and his complexion infused with color from the brisk autumn air. Like the rest of the Marsden brood, Luke had inherited their mother’s long, elegant lines. Merritt, on the other hand, was the only one out of the half-dozen siblings who’d ended up short and full-figured.

  “I’ve spent nearly three years managing a shipping firm,” she pointed out. “After all the time I’ve spent around longshoremen, nothing could shock me now.”

  “Maybe not,” Luke conceded. “But Scotsmen have a special gift for cursing. I had a friend at Cambridge who knew at least a dozen different words for testicles.”

  Merritt grinned. One of the things she enjoyed most about Luke, the youngest of her three brothers, was that he never shielded her from vulgarity or treated her like a delicate flower. That, among other reasons, was why she’d asked him to take over the management of her late husband’s shipping company, once she’d taught him the ropes. He’d accepted the offer without hesitation. As the third son of an earl, his options had been limited, and as he’d remarked, a fellow couldn’t earn a living by sitting around looking picturesque.

  “Before you show Mr. MacRae in,” Merritt said, “you might tell me why he’s angry.”

  “To start with, the ship he chartered was supposed to deliver his cargo directly to our warehouse. But the dock authorities turned it away because all the berths were full. So it was just unloaded four miles inland, at Deptford Buoys.”

  “That’s the usual procedure,” Merritt said.

  “Yes, but this isn’t the usual cargo.”

  She frowned. “It’s not the timber shipment?”

  Luke shook his head. “Whisky. Twenty-five thousand gallons of extremely valuable single malt from Islay, still under bond. They’ve started the process of bringing it here in barges, but they say it will take three days for all of it to reach the warehouse.”

  Merritt’s frown deepened. “Good Lord, all that bonded whisky can’t sit at Deptford Buoys for three days!”

  “To make matters worse,” Luke continued, “there was an accident.”

  Her eyes widened. “What kind of accident?”

  “A cask of whisky slipped from the hoisting gear, broke on the roof of a transit shed, and poured all over MacRae. He’s ready to murder someone—which is why I brought him up here to you.”

  Despite her concern, Merritt let out a snort of laughter. “Luke Marsden, are you planning to hide behind my skirts while I confront the big, mean Scotsman?”

  “Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. “You like them big and mean.”

  Her brows lifted. “Wha
t in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

  “You love soothing difficult people. You’re the human equivalent of table syrup.”

  Amused, Merritt leaned her chin on her hand. “Show him in, then, and I’ll start pouring.”

  It wasn’t that she loved soothing difficult people. But she definitely liked to smooth things over when she could. As the oldest of six children, she’d always been the one to settle quarrels among her brothers and sisters, or come up with indoor games on rainy days. More than once, she’d orchestrated midnight raids on the kitchen pantry or told them stories when they’d sneaked to her room after bedtime.

  She sorted through the neat stack of files on her desk and found the one labeled “MacRae Distillery.”

  Not long before her husband, Joshua, had died, he’d struck a deal to provide warehousing for MacRae in England. He’d told her about his meeting with the Scotsman, who’d been visiting London for the first time.

  “Oh, but you must ask him to dinner,” Merritt had exclaimed, unable to bear the thought of a stranger traveling alone in an unfamiliar place.

  “I did,” Joshua had replied in his flat American accent. “He thanked me for the invitation but turned it down.”

  “Why?”

  “MacRae is somewhat rough-mannered. He was raised on a remote island off the west coast of Scotland. I suspect he finds the prospect of meeting the daughter of an earl overwhelming.”

  “He needn’t worry about that,” Merritt had protested. “You know my family is barely civilized!”

  But Joshua replied that her definition of “barely civilized” was different from a rural Scotsman’s, and MacRae would be far more comfortable left to his own devices.

  Merritt had never dreamed that when she and Keir MacRae finally met, Joshua would be gone, and she would be the one managing Sterling Enterprises.

  Her brother came to the doorway and paused at the threshold. “If you’ll come this way,” he said to someone outside the room, “I’ll make introductions and then—”

  Keir MacRae burst into the office like a force of nature and strode past Luke, coming to a stop on the other side of Merritt’s desk.

  Looking sardonic, Luke went to lean against the doorjamb and folded his arms. “On the other hand,” he said to no one in particular, “why waste time with introductions?”

  Merritt stared in bemusement at the big, wrathful Scotsman. He was an extraordinary sight, more than six feet of muscle and brawn dressed in a thin wet shirt and trousers that clung as if they’d been glued to his skin. An irritable shiver, almost certainly from the chill of evaporating alcohol, ran over him. Scowling, he reached up to remove his flat cap, revealing a shaggy mop of hair, several months past a good cut. The thick locks were a beautiful cool shade of amber shot with streaks of light gold.

  He was handsome despite his unkempt state. Very handsome. His blue eyes were alert with the devil’s own intelligence, the cheekbones high, the nose straight and strong. A tawny beard obscured the line of his jaw—perhaps concealing a weak chin?—she couldn’t tell. Regardless, he was a stunner.

  Merritt wouldn’t have thought there was a man alive who could fluster her like this. She was a confident and worldly woman, after all. But she couldn’t ignore the flush rising from the high-buttoned neck of her dress. Or the way her heart had begun to pound like a clumsy burglar trampling the flower bed.

  “I want to speak to someone in charge,” he said brusquely.

  “That would be me,” Merritt said with a quick smile, coming around the desk. “Lady Merritt Sterling, at your service.” She extended her hand.

  MacRae was slow to respond. His fingers closed over hers, cool and slightly rough.

  The sensation raised the hairs on the back of her neck, and she felt something uncoil pleasantly at the pit of her stomach.

  “My condolences,” he said gruffly, releasing her hand. “Your husband was a good man.”

  “Thank you.” She took a steadying breath. “Mr. MacRae, I’m so sorry for the way your delivery has been botched. I’ll submit paperwork to make sure you’re exempted from the landing charges and wharfage rates, and Sterling Enterprises will handle the lighterage fees. And in the future, I’ll make sure a berth is reserved on the day your shipment is due.”

  “There’ll be no fookin’ future shipments if I’m to be put out of business,” MacRae said. “The excise agent says every barrel of whisky that hasn’t been delivered to the warehouse by midnight will no longer be under bond, and I’m to be paying duties on it immediately.”

  “What?” Merritt shot an outraged glance at her brother, who shrugged and shook his head to indicate he knew nothing about it. This was deadly serious business. The government’s regulations about storing whisky under bond were strictly enforced, and violations would earn terrible penalties. It would be bad for her business, and disastrous for MacRae’s.

  “No,” she said firmly, “that will not happen.” She went back behind the desk, took her chair, and sorted rapidly through a pile of authorizations, receipts, and excise forms. “Luke,” she said, “the whisky must be transported here from Deptford Buoys as fast as possible. I’ll persuade the excise officer to give us at least ’til noon tomorrow. Heaven knows he owes us that much, after the favors we’ve done him in the past.”

  “Will that be enough time?” Luke asked, looking skeptical.

  “It will have to be. We’ll need every barge and lighter vessel we can hire, and every able-bodied man—”

  “No’ so fast,” MacRae said, slapping his palms firmly on the desk and leaning over it.

  Merritt started at the sound and glanced up into the face so close to hers. His eyes were a piercing shade of ice blue, with faint whisks at the outer corners, etched by laughter and sun and sharp windy days.

  “Yes, Mr. MacRae?” she managed to ask.

  “Those clodpates of yours just spilled one hundred and nine gallons of whisky over the wharf, and a good portion over me in the bargain. Damned if I’ll be letting them bungle the rest of it.”

  “Those weren’t our clodpates,” Luke protested. “They were lightermen from the barge.”

  To Merritt, her brother’s voice sounded as if it were coming from another floor of the building. All she could focus on was the big, virile male in front of her.

  Do your job, she told herself sternly, ripping her gaze from MacRae with an effort. She spoke to her brother in what she hoped was a professional tone. “Luke, from now on, no lightermen are to set foot on the hoisting crane platform.” She turned back to MacRae. “My employees are experienced at handling valuable cargo,” she assured him. “They’ll be the only ones allowed to load your whisky onto the crane and stock it in the warehouse. No more accidents—you have my word.”

  “How can you be sure?” MacRae asked, one brow lifting in a mocking arch. “Will you be managing the operation yourself?”

  The way he asked, sarcasm wrapped in silk, elicited an odd little pang of recognition, as if she’d heard him say something in just that tone before. Which made no sense, since they’d never met until this moment.

  “No,” she said, “my brother will manage it from start to finish.”

  Luke let out a sigh as he realized she’d just committed him to working through the night. “Oh, yes,” he said acidly. “I was just about to suggest that.”

  Merritt looked at MacRae. “Does that meet with your approval?”

  “Do I have a choice?” the Scotsman countered darkly, pushing back from the desk. He tugged at the damp, stained fabric of his shirt. “Let’s be about it, then.”

  He was cold and uncomfortable, Merritt thought, and he reeked of cask-strength single malt. Before he returned to work, he needed the opportunity to tidy himself. “Mr. MacRae,” she asked gently, “where are you staying while you’re in London?”

  “I was offered the use of the flat in the warehouse.”

  “Of course.” A small, utilitarian set of rooms at their bonded warehouse had been installed for th
e convenience of vintners and distillers who wished to blend and bottle their products on the premises. “Has your luggage been taken there yet?”

  “’Tis still on the docks,” MacRae replied curtly, clearly not wanting to be bothered with trivial issues when there was so much to be done.

  “We’ll collect it right away, then, and have someone show you to the flat.”

  “Later,” he said.

  “But you’ll need to change your clothes,” Merritt said, perturbed.

  “Milady, I’m going to work through the night beside longshoremen who won’t give a damn how I look or smell.”

  Merritt should have let the matter go. She knew that. But she couldn’t resist saying, “The docks are very cold at night. You’ll need a coat.”

  MacRae looked exasperated. “I have only the one, and ’tis drookit.”

  Merritt gathered “drookit” meant thoroughly soaked. She told herself that Keir MacRae’s well-being was none of her concern, and there was urgent business requiring her attention. But … this man could use a bit of looking after. Having grown up with three brothers, she was well familiar with the surly, hollow-eyed look of a hungry male.

  Luke was right, she thought wryly. I do like them big and mean.

  “You can’t very well leave your luggage sitting out in public,” she said reasonably. “It will only take a few minutes for me to fetch a key and show you to the flat.” She slid a glance to her brother, who joined in obligingly.

  “Besides, MacRae,” Luke added, “there’s nothing you can accomplish until I’ve had a chance to organize the men and hire extra barge crew.”

  The Scotsman pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed the corners of his eyes. “You can’t show me to the flat,” he told Merritt firmly. “No’ without a chaperone.”

  “Oh, no need to worry about that, I’m a widow. I’m the one who chaperones others.”

  MacRae gave Luke an expectant stare.

  Luke wore a blank expression. “Are you expecting me to say something?”

  “You will no’ forbid your sister to go off alone with a stranger?” MacRae asked him incredulously.

  “She’s my older sister,” Luke said, “and she employs me, so … no, I’m not going to tell her a damned thing.”

  “How do you know I won’t insult her virtue?” the Scotsman demanded in outrage.